


long enough to bruise

by daisysusan



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Porn with Feelings, Rival Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 16:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5097560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisysusan/pseuds/daisysusan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack wants to win, any way he can. It's probably a bad idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	long enough to bruise

**Author's Note:**

> For [this](http://thesinbin.dreamwidth.org/3088.html?thread=2760976#cmt2760976) kinkmeme prompt. Title is from [The Report From Home](http://hopetorun.tumblr.com/post/123511355452/here-is-the-topography-of-false-starts-here-a) by Paul Guest. 
> 
> There's some ... weirdness, I guess, for lack of a better word, to the consent in this fic. It's definitely not dubcon and, in my opinion, doesn't merit a "consent issues" tag, but I'm explaining it in more detail in the end notes!

“This is a fucking terrible idea, and you’re a fucking lunatic,” Noah says, surprisingly distracted for how much he’s swearing. He doesn’t even look up from whatever he’s reading on his iPad. 

“I don’t care,” Jack says, trying not to grit his teeth. 

“How do you know he’ll even fuck you?” Noah pokes at the screen of his iPad a few times but doesn’t so much as glance at Jack.

“Just because no one will sleep with you doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t have game,” Jack says. He grins. “I’m _irresistible_.”

\--

Connor gasps when Jack nips at the hinge of his jaw, his head falling back against the wall. From there, it’s easy for Jack to kiss down his neck, teeth and tongue against Connor’s skin. He has Connor pinned against the wall, trapped between his arms and his legs and his mouth. 

It feels like standing on the cusp of victory, like he’s so close to winning he can taste it. 

One of Connor’s hands is in his hair, pulling his head up and away from the soft skin around his collarbone so that he can kiss Jack. Somehow, when Jack thought about this, he didn’t consider that Connor would kiss him. That Connor would be an active participant, not just someone Jack could take apart and then feel smug over.

Connor is kissing him now, though, and it’s—actually kind of a great kiss. Sloppy, but sloppy like he’s desperate, like Jack is taking him apart and he wants to return the favor. His fingers in Jack’s hair tighten, and Jack makes an involuntary noise. He’s not sure if he’s an encouraging one or not.

This would be easier if he’d pinned Connor’s wrists over his head, if he’d jerked Connor off instead of grinding against him. 

Well, hindsight is 20/20, right?

Jack drags Connor’s lower lip into his mouth, too harsh with his teeth, and Connor shudders. His hand falls to the back of Jack’s neck, holding him close. His other hand is curled at his side, clenched in a loose fist. Jack isn’t touching Connor anywhere but where their mouths are pressed together. 

\--

It’s not the easiest thing Jack has done in his life, but it’s far from the hardest. 

McDavid is pretty simple to read—he likes being liked, and he likes winning. Not unlike Jack, really. He’s nicer, or at least that’s what people say about him.

Either way. It’s not that difficult to get him a little riled up.

\--

Connor sweeps his tongue across Jack’s lips and Jack opens for him before he even considers the action. Muscle memory. 

Kissing Connor is so easy, the way their mouths slide together and the way he tastes. His mouth is so soft under Jack’s, so giving. It’s easy to be nice when you’re winning, Jack supposes.

Which is not why he’s here. This isn’t supposed to be nice. It’s hard to remember, when Connor is kissing him like this.

Jack pulls his mouth away from Connor’s and—christ—Connor follows his lips, seeking. Jack doesn’t kiss him again. He bites at the pulse point tucked under the jut of Connor’s jaw, and he scrapes his teeth across the tender skin of Connor’s throat. He winds a hand into Connor’s hair and pulls his head back almost roughly. Uses his teeth more than he should, knowing it’ll mean a mark on Connor’s collarbone tomorrow.

Connor doesn’t protest, doesn’t stop him, doesn’t pull him away muttering that they’re going to be on TV at the game. 

Instead, he groans, and lets Jack move him, and closes his eyes. His mouth is hanging open slightly, his lips pink. He’s biting his bottom lip and Jack can see that he’s breathing heavy. But even pinned against the wall, even completely at Jack’s mercy, he seems. Relaxed.

“Don’t you ever get mad?” Jack hisses against the cotton of his t-shirt. It’s an Oilers one, the cotton still stiff with newness. 

“Um,” Connor says. His voice is hoarse.

\--

Jack doesn’t quite play nice at the combine but he isn’t, like, rude. That’s all he needs. It’s not like he’s going to make McDavid fall in love with him. It doesn’t matter if McDavid wants to have his babies, just if he’s going to let Jack jerk him off in a storage closet or something. 

\--

“Sometimes?” Connor says, after a long moment, during which Jack crowds him even closer against the wall. “Mostly about hockey.”

Of-fucking-course Hockey Jesus only gets upset about hockey.

Jack kisses him again, almost angry this time. He shouldn’t be kissing Connor, this is how it almost went off the rails, but this one is different. It’s bruising, biting. It’s keeping Connor trapped between Jack and the wall, pinned there by Jack’s mouth and Jack’s hand on his hip and Jack’s hand in his hair. 

He bites down on Connor’s lip again, already raw, and tastes the sharp tang of blood. 

Connor pushes against him, seeking more contact. He’s not trying to get away; Jack saw his fitness testing at the combine. If he wanted to get away, if he wanted Jack to stop, Jack would know.

They’re pressed so close together, Connor against the wall and Jack as close to him as he can get. He can feel the thudding of Connor’s heart, the way his pulse is racing, and his dick pressed against the cut of Jack’s hip. He’s not really hard yet, but he will be soon, Jack thinks. He’s moving like he wants more, like he _wants_ Jack. 

\--

“Congratulations,” McDavid says to him as soon as he steps into the room he was herded towards after he shuffled offstage with all the Sabres’ brass. He sounds like he means it.

It’s easy to be nice when you’re winning.

“You too,” Jack says. He doesn’t think he sounds like he means it.

McDavid’s lips quirk up.

\--

This feels like a lot more than Jack bargained for. Maybe Noah was right.

He shoves his hand under the waistband of Connor’s shorts. Connor’s whole body jerks. 

“Oh,” Connor says, sounding surprised. Where can he possibly have thought this was going?

Might as well get it all out of the way, Jack decides, shoving Connor’s shorts down and dropping to his knees. He’s young, he can deal with the hard floor for a few minutes. It doesn’t take that long to get an 18-year-old off anyway. 

Connor’s eyes are so wide looking down at him. “What are you doing?” he asks unnecessarily.

“Isn’t that kind of obvious?” Jack says, aiming for dry. His voice is rougher than he wishes it was. There’s been a lot of kissing. And it’s only going to get worse from here, unless something changes dramatically in the next few seconds.

“Are you sure?” 

Why is Connor so fucking _nice_?

\--

So, like, nothing happens at the draft because even Jack is too fucking bitter for that, and Noah talks a lot of shit, and he apparently told fucking everyone that Jack said he was going to sleep with Connor McDavid because Jack has a hundred and twelve text messages when he finally checks his phone, and only seventy nine of them are about him actually getting drafted. 

Just because nothing happens at the draft doesn’t mean that Jack isn’t going to do it.

It definitely doesn’t mean that he can’t do it.

\--

Jack doesn’t dignify that obnoxious polite shit with a response, he just wraps his hand around Connor’s dick and jerks him a few times. It is, all things considered, a pretty nice dick for a Canadian. He’s seen worse. He leaves his hand wrapped around the base and shifts so that he can lick at the tip. Blowing uncut dudes is kind of weird still. 

When Jack mouths at the head of his dick, Connor makes this small noise that sounds a little bit like he’s dying. In a good way, but still dying. He stops when Jack starts actually blowing him, taking Connor’s dick into his mouth and sucking and trying to move his hand in time with his mouth. He’s pretty good at this, he thinks, but not always the most coordinated. The rhythm is slightly off for a long time, and Jack keeps forgetting to move his hand.

Connor doesn’t seem to mind, from the way he’s making soft noises low in his throat and resting a hand on Jack’s head. Not even in his hair, definitely not pulling. But sitting there. His fingers are tense. Jack closes his eyes, deliberately relaxes, tries to take Connor deeper. 

He has to fight his gag reflex, but the way Connor whimpers, the aborted jerk of his hips—it’s worth it. Connor is babbling incoherently, his stomach shaking. Jack reaches his free hand up and rests it there, over his shirt. The muscles are trembling with exertion and it’s fucking ridiculous, how _nice_ Connor is. Not that he wants Connor to fuck his face, but it would be nice if he lost it enough that Jack had to tell him that. 

Instead—this. This carefully controlled—something. This inability to lose control. It’s fucking frustrating.

\--

Jack’s roommate for the rookie showcase is fucking Mitch Marner, which is a pain in the fucking ass, is what it is. 

He spends most of the limited spare time they have lying on Noah’s bed while Noah ignores him to text his “other friends.” “Because you’re not the only person I talk to,” he says, patronizing. 

It’s probably a girl. He would definitely lie to Jack about texting a girl.

“Aren’t you supposed to be boning Hockey Jesus?” Noah asks.

Jack pushes him off the bed, and Noah kicks him out of the room.

\--

He’s never—actually deep-throated someone before. Jack hasn’t exactly had occasion to give that many blowjobs. Sure, college is college, but it’s not like people weren’t paying attention. But at this point there’s basically nothing he won’t try to make Connor fucking McDavid come apart. It’s like, a matter of pride.

Jack takes his hand off the base of Connor’s dick, which isn’t really all that long anyway. Nice enough, but not like fucking monstrous. Connor makes a low noise that might be protest, and something warm swirls in Jack’s stomach. He ignores it, pulling off enough to take a deep breath. 

“Jack—” Connor starts. He cuts himself off, biting his lip instead of whatever he was going to say. Jack wrenches his eyes away from Connor’s face, cheeks flushed and hair sweaty-damp. His knees might be bruised tomorrow. 

He takes another deep breath and then one more. Anything it takes. 

It’s easier than he expects to relax his throat around Connor’s dick, and, grudgingly, Jack admits to himself that Connor being so achingly still is helping. He can’t take it in all the way, but there’s not enough room for his whole hand at the base, either. It’s a personal best, for sure. And it seems to work—Connor’s hips actually jerk forward, like he can’t contain himself, and he nearly chokes Jack with it. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, somehow managing to still his hips. His stomach is still shaking and Jack shifts his hands so that he’s gripping Connor’s hips firmly. “Sorry, sorry,” Connor is still murmuring. He sounds breathless. “It’s just—really good.” His voice is so rough and Jack is sure that, if he was talking, his would be worse. 

He’s barely even moving, because it’s kind of difficult, but he can vary the suction and swallow and frankly, it seems like Connor’s pretty much on the edge already. Jack might be leaving bruises on his hips, his fingers are pressing so hard. But it’s a satisfying picture, Connor shaking under his hands and his mouth. Gasping like he’s never had anything quite this good happen before.

“Shit,” he says once, twice. “Jack, I’m—”

Connor keeps saying his name. Jack feels a little crazy from the way he does it, his mouth wrapping around it like it’s special. He should pull off. He’s never liked swallowing, particularly. 

He doesn’t.

\--

McDavid is sitting in a corner of the hotel lobby, facing away from the door. Facing the corner, really. He’s wearing a hoodie that’s pulled up around his ears, and his feet are tucked under him. 

It’s an effective enough disguise that it takes Jack a few minutes to recognize him, and Jack’s seen a lot of him. Well, it’s not like he has anything better to do, unless he wants to go back to his room and be stuck watching fucking Mitch Marner play some stupid game.

He drops into the chair across from McDavid. “Hi,” he says. It sounds fucking idiotic. 

McDavid actually smiles when he looks up from his phone. “Hi.”

\--

Against his better judgment, Jack lets Connor come in his mouth, going limp under his hands, still white-knuckled on Connor’s hips. He swallows, the taste as bad as he remembers but—christ. Connor is staring down at him, wide-eyed and gaping. 

“Oh,” Connor whispers. “That was—”

Jack doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t know what he could possibly say, with his throat totally fucked and a little bit of Connor’s jizz on his chin. Connor goes limp against the wall, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. He looks totally destroyed and triumph curls through Jack. Connor hasn’t tried to say anything else and Jack just. Lets himself watch. The line of Connor’s neck stretched long, red marks from Jack’s mouth on it. The crescent moons where his nails dug into the skin of Connor’s hips. 

He stands, because he’s losing feeling in his knees, and Connor reaches out, scrabbling at his t-shirt, pulling him in. Connor doesn’t kiss him, though, just draws him until Jack’s forehead is resting against his. His eyes are blown, Jack can see from this close. His breathing is still ragged.

“Jack,” he says after what feels like too many seconds. He sounds awed. 

Jack kisses him, because the moment has gone on too long and he’s losing control of it. Connor’s mouth is softer than it was before he came, almost slack. Like he’s still too wrung out to really move. Jack pulls back enough to kiss the line of his jaw, the soft skin below his ear and the pulse point tucked under that. Connor tilts his neck to make it easier, and winds a loose arm around Jack’s lower back. He hums, relaxed, when Jack noses at the other side of his neck to do it all again. 

The arm around his back tightens when he runs his teeth down the side of Connor’s neck, and it—it’s not that Jack wasn’t aware that he was hard from sucking Connor off, he was just. Ignoring it. 

But now he’s pressed too close to Connor to keep doing that, because his dick is pressed against Connor’s hip, only the thin material of Jack’s shorts between them.

\--

“Are you hiding?” Jack asks, because why beat around the bush. 

McDavid shrugs. “I guess.” He pauses for a moment and then adds, “I wanted a break.”

Jack doesn’t quite laugh, but he exhales sharply. “I get that.” He always forgets how hard it is to talk to McDavid, how quiet he is and how little he volunteers. Especially with Jack.

But his smile is warm enough that not all hope is lost. 

“I’m not surprised,” McDavid says. His voice is soft, but not discouraging.

“You know,” Jack says, trying to stop his grin short of a leer. “You’re not going to get away with hiding here for very long. You’re pretty famous in these parts.”

\--

Jack has a lot of willpower, but not enough of it to keep from rolling his hips against Connor’s. Connor helps him along by pressing thigh up between Jack’s legs, giving him more friction. Jack bites down on his own lip, tries to keep from making any noise. 

Connor’s hand is under his t-shirt, palm flat on his lower back. Jack’s skin tingles where they’re touching. There, and where his face is tucked into Connor’s shoulder, too uncoordinated to worry at his skin anymore. 

He honestly forgets that Connor still has a hand free until he feels it trailing across the waistband of his shorts, fingers dipping below and almost tickling him. Jack sighs into Connor’s shoulder, ragged and needy, and Connor somehow understands what he means with it, wrapping his fingers firmly around Jack’s dick. To keep himself from saying anything, Jack bites down hard.

Connor gasps, a stuttery laughing noise. “You’re like a vampire,” he says, shaky. Jack doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t trust his voice. The hand on his dick is too dry, not tight enough, not fast enough, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s doing to come in about thirty seconds just from the proximity and the heat and how worked up he already is. From Connor’s other hand slipping down to his ass and pulling him closer. 

When he comes, he closes his eyes and keeps his mouth pressed to Connor’s shoulder. He is blessedly quiet, his only noise a wheezing gasp muffled by Connor’s skin. 

\--

Connor smiles thinly, shrugging again. “It’s better than nothing.”

“Why don’t we go upstairs?” Jack is aiming for something like friendly with the question, but his intentions bleed into his voice and it comes out just shy of sultry. Connor’s cheeks go pink. 

“Sure,” he says. 

\--

He doesn’t want to lean on Connor, but honestly Jack’s not sure he can stand up otherwise. His face is still buried in Connor’s shoulder, and Connor has moved one of his hands up to curl around the back of his neck, fingers toying with the curls there. Jack’s legs feel shaky, and so does his chest. His breathing hasn’t evened out yet, though Connor’s seems to have.

“That was fun,” Connor says against Jack’s ear. He sounds a little hesitant now, in a way he wasn’t—during.

“Mmhmm.” Jack doesn’t trust his voice, not yet. But it was fun. Connor’s fingers in his hair are nice. He doesn’t really want to move, even though his shorts are sticking to his dick and the walk back to his room is going to be very uncomfortable. 

Connor’s shorts are bunched around his ankles. He kisses the side of Jack’s head. Jack can’t make himself move because he would have to look Connor in the eye and he’s scared of what he’ll see. 

“Jack?”

Bracing himself, Jack lifts his head and meets Connor’s eyes. He looks hopeful, maybe. “Yeah,” he says. Shit, his voice is fucked. “It was fun.”

“We could,” Connor starts, biting his lip in the middle of the sentence. “We could do it again sometime?”

His cheeks are so pink, and Jack’s sure his own are too but that’s not actually what matters. Connor’s cheeks are pink and he’s biting his lip and he’s looking at Jack with big eyes and he probably still has Jack’s come smeared on his hand. 

“Yeah,” Jack says, and kisses him.

\--

In theory, Jack could kick Mitch out of their room, or maybe McDavid would kick Dylan out. In practice, he’s not going to do that, not when there’s a housekeeping closet between their rooms, the door left ajar and stacks of towels visible through the crack. It’s as good as anywhere, and besides, a bed would give the whole thing a seriousness that it doesn’t deserve.

He grabs him by the wrist, pushes him through the open door, and spins him into a rough kiss. Connor’s back hits the only stretch of unused wall, right next to the door, and he opens his mouth for Jack.

**Author's Note:**

> Jack starts out with fairly underhanded motives as regards sleeping with Connor—he wants to win, and Connor thinks he's just agreeing to a regular old hookup.


End file.
